'Til Morning Comes
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“Relax, baby, I won’t bite.” His hands drift up Combeferre’s chest and massage his shoulders lightly. “That’s your job, remember?”
Combeferre searches his face, takes in the dark circles that assert themselves under his smudged eyeliner and the decidedly blank look behind his sultry gaze, and feels vaguely sick. I wouldn’t do that, he wants to say.
Instead, he asks, “What’s your name?”
The beautiful stranger hums and settles more comfortably on his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck.
“They call me Fey,” he says, tracing one finger along Combeferre’s jawline. “But you can call me whatever you want.”
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- Part 1 of 'Til Morning Comes
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“But seriously, Enj,” Courfeyrac says when he’s settled down. “How are we going to pull off graffiti-ing the Eiffel Tower?”
“We’re not going to graffiti the Eiffel Tower, that’s ridiculous,” Enjolras says. “We’re going to graffiti the Louvre.”
“Oh my god,” Combeferre says.
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- Part 2 of 'Til Morning Comes